


Fair Play

by tristesses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Pansy's job as the press secretary for the Holyhead Harpies has an unintended consequence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Play

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 1/2/2009.

Pansy smoothed her skirt and sat primly with a fake smile plastered to her face. Across from her, Gwenog Jones was skimming her résumé, her brow slightly furrowed. Pansy knew she wasn’t the captain’s first choice – her past political stance was not precisely a good reason for the famously liberal team to hire her – but, if truth be told, she was the most qualified candidate for the job, and Jones was nothing if not practical.

The captain set Pansy’s application on the table and sighed, leaning back in her chair.

"I’m going to be blunt with you, Parkinson," she said. "If it were up to me, I’d never hire the daughter of a Death Eater. Especially a Slytherin. Call me prejudiced if you like, but my experience tells me you lot are rotten eggs."

Pansy thought she should have earned a ribbon for keeping her smile firmly on her face.

"Perhaps so, ma’am," she said, voice very polite, "but I for one have seen the error of my ways. I believe I can work with Muggleborn witches very well, without any prejudice or anger toward them."

"Pretty words, but they don’t mean anything" said Gwenog dismissively. "Actions do, though, and you…" She trailed off, tapping her quill against her chin. "Personal assistant to the Malfoys, personal assistant to Percy Weasley, press secretary to the Weird Sisters, and now this. You’re a bit of a social climber, aren’t you?"

"I wouldn’t put it that way. I’m just a hard worker."

Gwenog laughed.

"I’m sure," she said, then shrugged. "At least you’re qualified. And tough, you’d have to be, working with the Weird Sisters. I’d say you’re hired for now, Parkinson."

Pansy smiled, and accepted Gwenog’s strong, calloused hand.

"Thank you, ma’am," she said. "When do I start?"

  
**. . .**   


 

Secretly, Pansy was ashamed to be working for a living. No other Parkinson had done that as far back as her genealogy went; they were rich, men and women of the upper class, and would never allow themselves to stoop to such a low level, working along with the peons and petty laborers. Of course, Pansy didn’t have the financial security enjoyed by her ancestors; her father’s legal bills were testimony to that. It was a constant source of shame, especially when irritating little brats like that Weasley girl knew about them. And now Pansy worked for her, and Ginny never passed her by without a subtle jab or cruel taunt, ensuring that Pansy would never forget who her boss was now.

Ginny caught her eye as she strode off the pitch and smirked, veering toward her; Pansy stood with a knot of journalists, fielding their pointed questions and denying their cleverly phrased gossip items – the Harpies were a rather exuberant group when it came to their affairs and lusts, no matter how it might hurt the team’s image. Taking care of that was Pansy’s job, after all.

"Parkinson," Ginny greeted her mockingly, maneuvering her way through the bustling crowd. "Fraternizing with the common folk?"

"Merely doing my job, Miss Weasley," replied Pansy, baring her teeth in a facsimile of a smile.

"Miss Weasley!" interjected a journalist. "Ross Witherspoon, _Athletic Witches’ Weekly_. How do you feel about being only the ninth person in the history of Quidditch to execute Garcia’s Twist perfectly? Not to mention your follow-up signature action, which is already a trademarked move – "

Pansy opened her mouth to speak – she was the mouthpiece for the team, since they were never supposed to talk to reporters without authorization – but Ginny muscled her out of the way and said grandly, "Well, Ross – can I call you Ross? – I’d first have to say that I couldn’t do any of it without the help of my team – "

Pansy stepped aside, fuming quietly. How dare that ginger slag upstage her like that? _As if she didn’t already get enough attention and accolades,_ Pansy thought bitterly as her eyes raked the Quidditch player’s slim, fit form. She wrinkled her pug nose in annoyance. _It’s not fair for her to be talented and so pretty. She’s never done anything wrong in her life. Little Miss Perfect, dating heroes and winning Quidditch matches –_

The redhead finished speaking and smiled out at their small audience. "Any more questions?" A clamor ensued.

"Ginny!" called out a journalist, an older woman with tight blonde ringlets. _Dyed,_ Pansy thought. "Any comments on your recent split from the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, or on the scandalous rumors of your alleged sapphic practices?"

Ginny tensed; her brown eyes blazed.

"Take that question and shove it, Skeeter," she snapped, and spun on her heel, striding away toward the changing rooms.

"Ooh, snippy," crooned Skeeter, and began narrating softly to her acid-green quill, which skritched quickly over a piece of parchment.

"Please excuse Miss Weasley’s behavior," Pansy said loudly, stepping into Ginny’s recently vacated spot. "Naturally, she’s stressed over the current events of her personal relationships; it’s difficult to deal with such a public life. To ensure her privacy, the Harpies ask you to give her space and not spread these rumors, which have no basis in fact. Thank you. No further comments."

Pansy stood still and smiled until the milling crowd began to dissipate, then turned and paced quickly toward the changing rooms, keeping her meet-the-press face on until she passed through the door.

Ginny was at the far end of the rooms, alone in an alcove. She appeared to be crying at a glance, but Pansy sincerely doubted it.

"What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?" hissed Pansy, sliding to a stop behind her. "You can’t say that to the press! That quote’s going to be plastered across the front page of every major gossip rag in the country tomorrow – "

"Do you honestly think I care?" snapped Ginny, spinning to face the older girl. "With all I’m going through, do you really think I give – " She inhaled sharply and shook her head, attempting to compose herself. "You know what? Just leave me alone, Parkinson. Get the fuck out of here."

"You need to be more professional, Weasley," Pansy sneered, and turned to leave. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and slammed her against the wall of wooden lockers; they rattled with the force of her crash.

" _I_ need to be more professional?" Ginny spat. "What about you, with your holier-than-thou attitude and ugly little smirks – you think you’re so much better than me, don’t you, because you’re a glorious, precious Slytherin with money and a boyfriend!"

Pansy opened her mouth to snap that she may have been a Slytherin, but certainly wasn’t rich or part of a couple, but Ginny barreled on.

"Well, I’m _happy_ the way I am, I’ve got friends and I’ve got family who love me, which is more than you can say, I’ll bet – "

The truth of this struck Pansy deep, and she uttered a little cry of dismay, then immediately hated herself for being so weak.

"I mean, do you have anybody?" asked Ginny, with just a touch of cruelty in her voice. She examined Pansy’s face, eyes skimming over her wide eyes, small nose, big lips. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "I don’t think you do."

"I don’t need anyone," Pansy snapped hoarsely. Ginny grinned.

"Yes, you do. And I can prove it."

  
**. . .**   


 

Pansy had expected a kiss, something sweet and sensual and disgustingly cliché, not this desperate fumbling, hot calloused hands sliding up her thighs, lips at the hollow of her neck, Ginny’s slim body pressed hard against her curves. Pansy twisted her neck and wriggled, hot panic thrumming high in her chest, but Ginny bit the flesh of her shoulder lightly and hissed, "Stay still", and to Pansy’s surprise and dismay, she did.

And she reciprocated, weaving her hands in Ginny’s flaming hair, tight enough to pull, and she tilted her head back to allow Ginny’s tongue and teeth access to the sensitive skin of her neck. Shivers rippled through her body, a low heat throbbed low in her gut, a precursor to arousal.

"Told you," Ginny muttered, and ripped her fancy blouse, scattering buttons, nipping at her collarbone and cupping one breast in her palm. She flicked the sensitive nipple with her thumb, short nail just barely scraping it, then bent her head and dragged her tongue across Pansy’s skin. The jolt of pleasure that shuddered through her nervous system temporarily scrambled her brain; she could only think, _Oh, oh, it’s been too long._ Ginny pinned Pansy against the wall, hiking the other girl’s skirt up to her waist, sliding a finger against her knickers and stroking, tantalizing, never quite getting close enough for Pansy’s liking.

Pansy fumbled with the straps and buckles on Ginny’s Quidditch uniform, peeling away her outer layers like petals until she brushed the hot skin beneath the leather. Ginny’s stomach was hard and strong, such a contrast to Pansy’s softness, her breasts small and firm; Pansy rubbed her thumbs over Ginny’s nipples, harshly, almost possessively, and the other girl moaned in her ear. And Pansy suddenly felt in control, for all that she was pinned to a wall and being teased like a teenager; she had made Ginny _moan_ , waver just for a moment, and that was all she needed. With a little coaxing, Ginny shimmied out of her dragonskin trousers, leaning against the wall languidly, while Pansy knelt before her, placing little nips and kisses along the redhead’s thighs until she parted them.

 _This_ was the rush Pansy was looking for, the taste of woman on her lips; Merlin, how she’d missed it! Ginny, hot and sticky and musky on her lips and tongue, Ginny, tense muscles and clenched fists, doubled up in Pansy’s hair; Ginny, whose legs were trembling already, shaky like the half-strangled gasps emerging from her lips. Pansy was merciless, suckling and nibbling on Ginny’s clit, two fingers slid slick inside her and curling, arching, drawing lovely desperate croons from the other girl’s throat. She was close; Pansy could feel it on her fingers, Ginny’s muscles contracting spasmodically.

"Pansy, wait – " Ginny gasped. "Please – stop – "

"No," Pansy murmured against Ginny’s delicate damp flesh, and twisted her fingers, pressing firmly against the tender spot inside the other girl.

Ginny half-yelped, half-screamed, short staccato bursts, and crumpled to the floor. _Not so big and strong now, are you?_ Pansy thought wickedly as she stood, sucking Ginny’s juices off her fingers. The redhead remained slumped on the ground, breathing heavily. Pansy bent down and tilted Ginny’s head up, staring her straight in the eye.

"Let me – " breathed Ginny, reaching for Pansy’s hips, but the older girl neatly sidestepped her grasp and crossed her arms lazily. She oozed confidence and arrogance, even with Ginny’s fluids smeared across her lips and cheeks.

"I am a Parkinson," she informed Ginny, eyes cool and coldly amused. "I do not demean myself so far as to beg succor from a Weasley’s lips – I don’t need you. You filthy blood traitor."

She spat those last words in Ginny’s face, saw it tighten and her eyes tear up, then turned and stalked away. Gwenog Jones was hovering in a corner, looking slightly aroused and a little wary.

"Miss Jones," Pansy said icily, "consider this my resignation."

The sunlight was piercingly bright, the legions of adoring fans still in their seats, waiting breathlessly for a post-game loop around the pitch. Pansy paused at the edge of the grass, rocking slightly on her heels. Perhaps the Malfoys were willing to offer her old job back; after the embarrassment and humiliation she’d given to Ginny Weasley, they might look better upon her. Old enmities die hard, after all.

Pansy looked into the sun, and smirked.


End file.
